Worthy
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: Faith tag story: Dean's having a hard time accepting the gift of his life.


**Worthy**  
K Hanna Korossy

"There's a suspicious fire in Bluecrop—that's about a hundred and fifty miles from here. Not a ceiling fire, but they can't find the cause. Uh…" Sam turned newsprint pages, the sheets rustling. "Unidentified animal attacks in Oklahoma—two people dead." He glanced up at Dean, Dean could feel him, but he didn't react, and Sam bent over the papers again. "Okay. Some strange disappearances in a house in Des Moines. Five apparently similar unexplained natural deaths in Topeka."

"Not Kansas," Dean said quietly.

Sam paused. He'd come back to the room with a bundle of newspapers as well as a soda, and had been reading aloud from them ever since, which was fine with Dean. He didn't want to talk but, tonight, liked the silence even less.

His brother finally cleared his throat. "Um…three people stabbed violently to death in Chester, Wisconsin. But that could just be—"

Dean's head swung up. "Chester? That's one of ours."

Sam blinked at him. "Ours as in, you know, _ours, _or ours as in you and Dad's?"

Dean's expression didn't change. "Dad and I killed a sliver cat there a while back. I guess they've got another one." He set down the laundry he'd been aimlessly folding and rose to retrieve the journal from the depths of his bag. They hadn't taken it out since they'd arrived in Nebraska.

"I've never heard of a sliver cat," Sam said from where he was seated on his own bed, but he didn't come over. Ever since the healing, he'd been giving his older brother space, and Dean didn't know how he felt about that.

Dean was still flipping pages. "They're big cats, about three hundred pounds, with wicked tails covered in spikes. They sit up in trees and wait for people to come by, then they swing their tails down and stab them."

"Adorable," Sam said dryly.

Dean found the page he was looking for, read through his dad's notes quickly. "Yeah, they're local legends—we didn't hear about 'em until we started asking around, either. They're supposed to hunt alone, but…" Dean shrugged.

Sam folded the paper. "So, Wisconsin then?"

Dean rubbed a thumb over the leather cover, trying to summon the reverence he usually had for the book. "Yeah, why not," he whispered.

Sam hesitated, and Dean knew what was coming. "Dean…we did do the right thing here."

He tucked the journal back into the bag with more force that was necessary. "Sure we did," he agreed blandly.

His brother sighed. "I'm gonna take a shower before bed."

Dean nodded. He didn't look up until the bathroom door closed. Sam had called Layla to come over to say good-bye, and Dean was grateful for that and should have said as much. But the rest…he himself didn't know how he felt, even how he felt about Sam, and no amount of talking would fix that no matter how much his baby brother wanted it to. Dean had had about as much of Sam's fixing as he could stand right now, anyway.

He stripped efficiently, wincing as it jarred his ever-present headache, and climbed into bed before Sam came back out, to avoid any further discussion that night. But it was long after his brother's breathing evened out into sleep that Dean followed him.

00000

Dean didn't like to fly, but he enjoyed driving and loved his car, and that was at least as much reason as any to take to the roads. There was something satisfying about watching the Impala eat up the miles, crossing the stretches of land that connected one job to another.

Usually, anyway.

The music was on but turned low, and Sam wasn't dozing for once. It was the kind of time they usually talked, about the job, about the sights they passed, sometimes about stuff they'd done in the years they'd been apart. Nothing serious, often funny. But not today.

Sam's head was swiveled away, watching passing trees. He sometimes turned back to look at Dean, but Dean never turned to meet his gaze and that seemed deterrent enough for conversation. Thank God. He didn't want to talk about _it, _but thought he would've choked on light chatter. Better the silence, even if it left too much time to think.

Dean reached over to turn the music up a little to drown out his thoughts.

After a few minutes, Sam reached over and turned it down again.

Dean did throw him an only slightly hostile questioning look, and got an apologetic shrug in return. "Headache," his brother said, and Dean relented. He could sympathize too well with that one, although the music seemed to help his. Or maybe the not-thinking did.

Sam's glances over became more frequent, prelude to his opening his mouth. Dean's expression tightened and he braced himself for it.

"So, do you hunt a sliver cat at night or in the day?"

The job. He could talk about the job. Dean tilted his head. "Doesn't matter. The important part is getting it out of the tree—they're clumsy and a lot less dangerous on the ground."

"How did you guys get it down?"

He almost smiled as he glanced over at Sam. "Chainsaw. Still got it in the back."

Sam mirrored him. "Nice."

Dean returned his gaze to the windshield. "Torches work, too—anything that'll spook it."

"And then you kill it with…"

He shrugged. "Doesn't matter—they're not mystical. We trapped and shot it, but beating or stabbing should work, too."

A pause. "Does it ever occur to you we have really weird conversations?"

Dean's face barely twitched. "What about us isn't really weird?" They didn't even die normal.

"Yeah, I guess you're right."

It only occurred to him a minute later that Sam usually only brought up the freak show that was their life when he was dwelling on the normal life he'd left behind, or how they only had each other on the road. Dean had an idea which it was this time. And wondered again how it was possible to be mad at someone and sympathize so completely with them at the same time.

He rebuffed the rest of Sam's attempts to strike up conversation, until his brother finally succumbed to sleep out of sheer boredom. Then Dean turned the music down lower, and tried harder not to think. He was pretty good at that.

Usually, anyway.

00000

Sam roused a little while before they rolled into Chester, nightmare-free as he was often of late. No more visions since Kansas, and Dean was silently grateful for that. Their freaky life was freaky enough.

Dean didn't remember the town, too many others like it before and since for him to distinguish, although the green-crusted statue in the town square looked vaguely familiar. Not that he cared; it was never hard to find their bearings in a small town, and Chester was no different with its small main street of stores, diners, and businesses. Dean rolled up in front of the most promising eatery and turned off the engine.

"Information or food?" Sam asked.

"Both," he answered, and climbed out.

They still walked in tandem, shoulder-to-shoulder, and for all Dean was still uncertain about, that was somehow comforting. He didn't want Sam _not_there, even less than Dean had wanted to die. The good things brought pain right now, was all, and it was impossible to untangle Sam or their job from that mess. Dean sighed, earning a quick glance from his brother. Sam was too perceptive for both their goods, and Dean was weary of hiding from him…but it was still good to be together. One more thing that didn't make sense those days.

It was lunchtime and the small diner was mostly full. They weren't able to get one of the booths Dean preferred, with a view out onto the street and door, and a wall at his back, but he had Sammy there and one thing Dean still knew was that he trusted his brother to watch his back. They ordered, Sam uncharacteristically getting more food than he did, then sat in silence that was mostly easy.

"So," Sam finally said, threading his hands together, "do you remember where the last cat was?"

Dean roused from deep contemplation of condiments and gave him a glance. "Uh, forest to the east of town. They move around some."

"How do you track something that moves through the trees?"

Dean fiddled with the salt shaker, and wondered idly if pepper had some sort of protective properties, too. Sure, probably made spirits sneeze, and internally he pulled a face. "Remember the wendigo?" he said aloud with a raised eyebrow.

Sam nodded with dawning comprehension. "Claw marks on the trunks."

"The spikes leave some serious gouges," Dean agreed. The woman in the booth behind Sam shifted, and Dean dropped his voice at the end.

Sam automatically followed his lead even not knowing why. "But if it attacks from above—"

"—protective gear. Helmets, vest." He could still access his brother's wavelength effortlessly, and it went both ways. Even in Nebraska, where he hadn't wanted it to. Dean took a deep breath. "Last time, it killed three people, two teenage hikers and a logger."

Over at the counter, a guy about his age was staring at him in a way that raised Dean's defenses. Someone he'd met last time? He couldn't remember either him or his dad mixing it up with any of the locals. Dean pretended to ignore the guy as he sipped at his coffee but kept him in the corner of his vision.

Sam chewed his lip for a moment, dumping more sugar into his tea. "How long did it take you and dad to track the cat down?"

Dean divided his attention between his brother and their spectator. "Three or four days. But part of that was figuring out what we were dealing with."

"So we should probably get a room before we go out." It was always easier to secure one before they hauled their bedraggled selves home.

Dean nodded his agreement, then leaned back as the waitress appeared and set plates before them both. The small-town matronly types usually liked Sam better, but it was Dean she bestowed a kind smile on before she swept back into the kitchen. Dean could feel his brother's grin at that, but found it mildly disconcerting, and dug into his food for distraction.

Which was apparently what Counter Guy had been waiting for, because he appeared at Dean's elbow before he could do more than slip his hand under his jacket and curl it around the hilt of his knife. A pale face framed by white-blond hair that washed out even the blue of his eyes, peered hard and cold at Dean. "The murders start up again and you're back. What a surprise."

The guy loomed between Sam and Dean, but a quick flick of Dean's eye caught his brother's tense gaze past their interloper's shoulders, and Dean gave him a tiny shake of the head. Sam backed off in intent if not bodily, and Dean gave Counter Guy a nice smile. "I'm sorry, do I know you?"

"You should. I'm the brother of one of the girls you killed the last time you were here."

Dean barely kept himself from flinching. Sam's foot nudged his boot, silently promising he was ready if needed, but Dean kept his body loose, misleadingly relaxed. The accusation had been hissed, low enough that no one else in the diner seemed to be noticing the edgy exchange; apparently, their friend didn't want to cause a scene. "Look, buddy, you must have the wrong guy—I don't know what you're talking about. What murders?"

The face retreated a little from his personal space, although the hatred in it didn't. "You know what murders. You had a different partner last time," he glanced quickly at Sam, and Dean's hand tightened on the knife hilt, "but I remember you." He looked back at Dean.

Dean stared back at him just as hard.

Counter Guy finally broke the impasse with a snort, jerking away from the table hard enough to slosh Dean's coffee over the sides of the cup. "We're not done," he said darkly, and strode off.

Sam was already mopping up the spilled coffee. Always about the clean-up, his brother. He glanced up at Dean with a bare smile. "You just make friends everywhere you go, don't you?"

Dean made a face, slipped his hand out from his jacket, and started eating again. But his eyes kept straying to the door for the rest of the meal.

00000

They got a room at the motel Dean found more by instinct than anything. Apparently, he remembered more of Chester than he'd thought. The beds looked inviting, but there were still a few hours until dark and it made sense to go check out the sliver cat's territory while they had the advantage. They dumped their bags onto their beds--Dean's the one closer to the door as usual--used the facilities, and set off for the forest. Dean took a few Advil in the privacy of the bathroom; what Sam didn't know wouldn't bother either of them.

Forests across the country all looked the same to Dean, although Sam could have probably given him a short lecture about the different trees in different regions. Around here, it was a lot of evergreens, but all Dean cared about were the dense branches making it hard to see anything hiding above their heads.

He'd dug out a pair of hard hats from the trunk, usually used when they were pretending to be building inspectors, but they'd do for protection. Their dad's was a little big on Sam, and Dean made a mental note to find his brother a better fit. The bulletproof vests had been wheedled from an old Marine buddy of John's, and those they could adjust to fit Sam's lankier and taller frame. It wouldn't stop the force of a sliver cat's swipe, but it would keep it from penetrating. Thus attired, and armed with assorted weapons and a net, they crept into the forest.

The waitress at the diner had been free with her information, thinking she was helping them with places to avoid instead of where to search. There was no telling where exactly the cat was, but it seemed to be roughly in the hunting grounds of the previous one. Dean led the way with sure steps, making certain his brother stayed close behind.

They found the first signs of the cat soon after, fresh gashes in the bark about head-level, weeping sap. Sam felt it lightly, gauging their age, and nodded at Dean that they were on the right trail.

They kept their eyes mostly on the branches above them, nearly back-to-back sometimes to cover their full three-sixty, and Dean thought fleetingly again how comfortable—safe—it felt to have Sam at his back. Usually, that thought made him glad. Now it came with a pang.

They followed the trail deeper into the trees, but it soon became random, zigzags and circles. The cat was at home here, moving easily all over its territory. It was where they'd hunt, but also where they were most at danger, and the sun was already starting to tint the sky pink as it sank toward the horizon. Dean glanced over and caught his brother's eye, and Sam nodded. Tomorrow it would be.

They went back out as carefully as they'd gone in, Sam leading the way this time.

"That's still a lot of area to cover," Sam said thoughtfully as they drove back to the motel. "Even if we know the heart of its territory, its range could be miles in any direction."

"Not usually," Dean said, shaking his head. "Dad and I tracked it down okay."

"I'm just saying, maybe we should find out more about where the victims were exactly. It might help us pin down its hunting pattern, since it doesn't have a lair."

"Always with the research?" Dean asked. It came out more bitter than he'd intended. He could feel the unease and hurt of Sam's silence, and winced where his brother couldn't see it. "Yeah, okay, whatever. I'll hit town, see what I can find out, and you—"

"—hit the libraries and the internet. Since it's what I'm _good _at."

Touché. Dean's regret eased. His discomfort didn't. But _he_ was good at ignoring things, and the rest of the trip passed in strained silence.

He was really starting to hate the silence.

00000

They changed, although their hunting clothes weren't much different from their going-into-town clothes. Not Dean's, anyway; he raised an eyebrow at Sam's knit sweater and loafers, got a challenging glare back, and didn't say a word. At least the walk from the motel to the main street wasn't as tense.

The library was the closer of their two goals, although Dean could hear the sounds of the bar just a half-block away as he slowed with Sam. They glanced each other, silently and unexpectedly reluctant to part ways. It was sometimes as near an apology as they got, the aversion to splitting up and leaving the other's back unprotected. Proof Dean hadn't even dared look for that some things between them hadn't changed.

"I'll come find you after I'm done," Sam said quietly.

"Okay." And still Dean didn't move.

Sam's face softened. "Maybe we could get some Chinese after, watch a movie?"

The simple pleasures. When had they gotten so complicated? "Maybe," Dean allowed. It was as much as he could promise.

Sam accepted that with a nod, and moved away to cross the street. Dean stayed a moment to watch him go, then turned and headed toward the bar.

Small-town bars were strange places. Nearly all the customers were locals, leaving Dean as obvious as a rube in a roomful of hustlers. But with its alcohol-greased camaraderie, it was also the place he could usually fit in best and find out the most. He settled at the bar and ordered a bottle of beer, then sat back to watch the crowd and start plying his subtle trade.

Two hours later, he knew the location of the town's lover's lane, who was sleeping with the mayor, what the town grocer smuggled in with his heads of lettuce, and which deputy was secretly a cross-dresser. Information was a weapon in their business, and Dean tucked it all away, along with the landmarks of the sites where the cat's latest victims had been found. He rather doubted Sam, for all his research skills and book-learning, had scored as much.

It was going on nine, and the bar's crowd continued to swell with new arrivals. The library had probably long closed, but repeated glances at the door didn't reveal his brother's tall form, and Dean snorted into his beer. Probably didn't want to get his nice loafers dirty.

The door opened, and Counter Guy walked in with friends.

Dean shifted slightly, from relaxed to ready with the barest readjustment. Had the guy run into Sam outside? But no, there was no sign of injury or exertion, and there hadn't been any sounds of scuffling. Dean slipped a little farther into the corner of the room and kept his eyes and ears open.

The guy's name was Kevin Runyon, and he was not unpopular. He'd lost a sister in the spate of unsolved murders nearly two years before, and conjecture was it still haunted him. Yeah, Dean could imagine that, although the guy's methods erased a lot of his sympathy. Still, if Dean had lost Sam and there was a likely suspect…

His hand curled sharply around the bottle. He wasn't going there. They'd traveled that road enough lately, and he still had enough pain left over.

Speaking of which, his head throbbed from the cheap band playing in the far corner and the smoke and alcohol. Dean stood, feeling slightly nauseated, and threw a few bills onto the counter before worming his way through the crowd to the door.

"Hey!"

He should have known it wouldn't be that easy.

Dean turned warily. Runyon had noticed him and was glaring daggers his way, apparently emboldened by the presence of his friends and the less-formal setting of the bar. "What're you doing here?"

Dean gave him a plastic smile. "Having a drink. There a law against that?"

"No, but there is against murder. You should never have come back here, buddy."

"Yeah, I'll remember that," he said with a nod, and started to turn away.

A hand closed roughly around his arm. "We're not done."

Dean nearly swung on him. Runyon was a little drunk and Dean's mind, despite the headache, was clear. But the guy had thirty pounds on him and about a dozen friends there at least, and he was grieving for his sister. Dean's jaw shifted and he shrugged out of Runyon's grasp without difficulty. "Oh, I think we are. For now," he said evenly.

Runyon's eyes narrowed at him.

The door opened behind Dean, and there was a new presence at his shoulder. Dean relaxed a little.

"There a problem?" Sam asked pleasantly from behind him.

Dean didn't look away from Runyon. "No. I was just leaving."

Runyon took another step toward him, and Dean could feel Sam tense. Always running to his rescue, and the thought unfairly annoyed Dean.

A fourth person shouldered his way into their little scene, moving in between Dean and Runyon with his back to Dean. "Come on, Kevin, sit down and have a drink." Dean immediately caught the bulge of a gun at the man's hip, and forced himself to stand down and let the cop handle it. Runyon was still glaring at him, but he was listening to the off-duty officer, too. It was a good time to go, and Dean did just that, pushing Sam out in front of him.

"What was that about?" his brother asked as soon as they hit the pavement.

"Same thing—guy thinks I killed his sister and decided the odds were in his favor this time." Dean strode with agitated speed back toward the motel, not checking to see if Sam was following.

He was, his long legs keeping up with Dean effortlessly. "We risk our lives to keep people from dying, and he threatens you because he thinks you killed his sister?" Sam laughed in disbelief. "Sometimes I don't even know who the bad guys are anymore, Dean. Like Sue Ann. Doesn't it make you wonder why we bother sometimes?"

Dean slammed to a halt, swung back to him. "No, Sam, it doesn't. What do you think—he lost his sister. Of course he's looking to start something. And Sue Ann was trying to save her husband. You of all people should know how she felt."

Sam jerked back, expression caught between anger and hurt. "And you don't?"

Dean _so_ didn't want to be having this conversation, not now, probably not ever. He started to turn away, angry at Sam, furious at himself.

It was Sam who grabbed him this time, and it shocked Dean that he had to fight even harder to keep from swinging on his brother. Instead, he yanked himself free with far less restraint than he had with Runyon. He glowered at Sam, who stared back at him with haunted eyes.

Sam finally shook his head, and gave a strangled laugh. "Are you ever going to forgive me?"

Dean stared at him. Forgive? Who said anything about forgiveness? For what, Sam doing everything he could to save Dean's life? Even at the cost of another's… Insane. This whole thing was insane. What was he supposed to forgive, and how? Dean shook his head angrily and turned away.

Sam didn't try to stop him this time.

There was no Chinese or movie. They got ready for bed in silence, and Sam curled up on his side facing away from Dean. It allowed Dean to watch him without censure in the pale darkness. The tousled head recalled countless mornings of waking up with those dark strands tickling his nose, back when they'd hunted with John and usually had to share a bed. Dean hadn't minded, because it was instant reassurance Sam was there and safe. His most prized possession, his little brother, and Dean would have sold his soul for him.

Yeah, he knew how Sue Ann felt, and Kevin Runyon, and even, when he was being honest, Sam. But what Sam didn't understand was that that only made things harder, not simpler. Dean's life had come at the cost of another human being's—two, actually—and that was a price he wouldn't have been willing to pay. But he couldn't be mad at Sam, not really, because Sam hadn't known, and Dean understood his desperate blindness too well. Dean hadn't asked for any of this. But he was stuck with it because of his brother's love for him, and who could he blame for that?

"Sorry, Sammy," he breathed, only because he was sure Sam was asleep and wouldn't hear it.

Dean fell asleep wondering why his brother had even bothered.

00000

The headache woke him early.

Sam had turned toward him sometime during the night, and Dean scanned his face intently in the dawning light before rising with a quiet sigh. He wasn't usually one for regrets, but they were getting as hard to avoid as the dull throb in his head.

Dean shrugged silently into some clothes, then slipped out the door and, taking a lungful of air, started running.

Jogging was for yuppies with their matching track suits and designer sneakers, and demon-hunting was good for keeping a guy fit even without exercise. But training never ended, John had drilled into them, and Dean had found a long time ago that running worked off a lot more than any excess fat. He hadn't been in a while, though, not since… his steps slowed. Not since his Dad had disappeared. Not since he'd gotten Sam back.

Dean's jaw set and he picked up speed.

It was also a good way to get the lay of the land, and his circuit took him to the outer edge of the small town, in sight of the sliver cat's forest beyond, then back behind and up Main Street. A shopkeeper waved to him as he swept the sidewalk, and Dean waved stiffly back. Chester was the kind of place Sam liked. Another time, Dean might have offered to stay a few days after the job, give them some time to rest up and have a little fun. Now, he was anxious to finish the job and hit the road. Runyon had made him uneasy. Heck, sitting anywhere too long made him uneasy. Arrive, kill, move on: it was a philosophy that had always worked for him.

Until the killing was in exchange for his own life.

Dean stopped and leaned forward, propping his arms on his knees as he gulped in air. In one week, life had gone from black-and-white to grey, and he hated grey. It scared him, and Dean wasn't one to scare easily. He hated this. In stray moments, he almost hated Sam for putting him there. That scared him, too.

His head pounded with rushing blood, and Dean finally gave up the exercise and pointless thoughts, and ducked into one of the stores to pick up breakfast and a paper.

Sam was up and showered when Dean let himself into the room again, poring over the local map they'd gotten the day before. Dean dumped the food and paper onto the table next to him.

"Where've you been?" The question was carefully neutral, and Dean answered in like.

"Running."

He could tell that surprised Sam, but his brother didn't say anything, just opened the paper and started reading. Dean stripped and went to take his own shower, and some painkillers.

Sam barely glanced at him when he returned and sank into the other chair. His brother shoved the Pop Tarts box his way, and, for a moment, things were reassuringly normal again. Dean ate with some appetite as he took a turn studying the map. "Any new attacks?" he asked around a mouthful of pastry.

"No." Sam looked at him. "What did you find out last night?"

"This set of kills, each one's been deeper in the woods, like we thought."

"Yeah, that's what I got, too." Sam's head bent next to his, and after a moment, his finger traced a line. "The last one should have been about here." He made a small circle.

Dean nodded. That had been his thinking. "They say they found the remains by a burned-out tree, lightning-struck or something. We should start there and see if we can pick up a trail."

"All right." Sam folded the paper. "Did you see Runyon in town this morning?"

Dean stiffened. "No."

Sam gave him an apologetic glance. "We should probably leave as soon as we get the cat, before we run into him again."

Dean nodded tersely, irritated and not sure why.

They rode out to the woods in silence and geared up like the day before, with the addition of a chainsaw. Sam moved to take the lead into the trees.

Dean reached out a hand to stop him. Sam turned back to face him at the touch, silently waiting.

John had never known it, but his sons had an unwritten variation of the "don't go to bed angry" rule: you didn't go on a serious hunt with unfinished business. It was a dangerous distraction and…you just never knew. And while Dean didn't see them finishing this business anytime soon, there was still something he could do. He shifted his balance, licked his lips, then took the plunge. "I'm sorry about last night," he said quietly.

Sam's eyes were like Dean often thought he remembered his mom's being, soft and understanding, and his mouth pulled into a sad smile. "Yeah, me too."

It didn't remotely make everything all right, but it helped. Dean nodded uncertainly, then cleared his throat. "C'mon, let's go see if curiosity kills the cat," and he pushed past Sam.

They took the same path they had last time, following clawed trees and signs of recent human passage. Sam pointed out the likely scene of the first attack; Dean found the second. The third was almost another hundred yards further, near a blackened and twisted trunk they hadn't glimpsed the first time. It wasn't hard to find residual traces of blood, and Sam silently pointed out the scored tree beside it. Dean bobbed his head. They drew together in tacit defense and keep going.

Another few dozen feet and the forest noises around them stilled. Dean exchanged a glance with Sam, then they both searched the branches above them for signs of a cat or a vicious tail. There was nothing Dean could see, and his brother's body language told him Sam was having the same luck. They crept on, scanning the trees.

The swish of something slicing through air was all the warning they had. Dean didn't even see where it was coming from, just tackled Sam hard and took him down as the long, powerful, and sharply spiked tail slashed the air above their heads. It retreated just as fast, but by then their gazes had met and they were scrambling apart, Sam pulling out his gun, Dean grabbing the chainsaw.

His brother moved away from the tree, covering him. Dean yanked the chainsaw's motor on and tossed Sam a grin. "Hail to the King, baby!" he crowed, then hunkered down by the tree and started slicing into the trunk.

The tail took another swipe at him. Dean ducked even though he was below its reach. There was the sound of a gunshot over the roar of the saw, and heard an angry yowl. Now if only the cat would stay in the tree while they cut it out from under him…

No such luck. He heard Sam's, "Dean!" just as the tree shuddered with the cat's leap. Dean turned the chainsaw off with a curse. Figured it wouldn't be that easy.

He moved back to Sam's side, still staying low. "Where did it go?"

"That way," Sam pointed, and they tried to see into the treetops to see its progress. "Did the other one run like this when you and Dad were chasing it."

"No, but then, we didn't shoot at it, either."

He hadn't really mean it as an accusation but saw Sam flinch. "There was a branch right above your head," was all his brother said. Dean swore silently.

They tracked in silence, until they both saw the flicker of movement in a tree ahead.

"It's gonna hear the chainsaw," Sam said. "I'll try to distract it while you get the tree down."

"Try to—" Dean sputtered, but Sam was already forging ahead. Exasperated, Dean followed.

Height was not an advantage in this case, and Dean nearly wrestled his brother down again as he saw Sam straighten up near the sliver cat's tree, eyes fixed on the branches above. But his brother knew what he was doing and it would be stupid to waste his efforts. Dean crept up to the trunk of the tree and started cutting.

It wasn't an old tree, less than a foot in diameter, quick work for a chainsaw. But he'd always hated Sam playing bait, and Dean mentally hurried the saw as he kept a leery eye on Sam.

And jumped as the tail swished down out of nowhere. Sam dove away from it just in time, landing and rolling, only to get right back on his feet. The cat took another swipe at him that he also dodged. A sliver cat's other advantage was surprise, and it had already lost that. Still, Dean was silently impressed at Sam's agility.

The chainsaw sliced all the way through. Dean jumped clear of the cut end as the trunk as branches crashed to the ground on the opposite side, and quickly traded out the chainsaw for the net.

Sam was already moving, circling the downed tree to get a better shot, and Dean saw the compact shape of the sliver cat detach itself from the shadows of the limbs, tail now curled harmlessly behind it. It yowled its displeasure at being disturbed, turning on Sam with a malicious gleam in its eye. As Dean readied the net, Sam fired another shot.

The cat jerked, growled low in its throat, and pounced.

Dean yelled something, he wasn't sure what, and threw the net with an expert cast.

Sliver cats weren't meant to hunt on the ground, and that was all that saved the two of them. It moved too slowly, even when attacking. While Sam scrambled to get out of its path, Dean's net caught the cat in mid-air and brought it down in a tangle of mesh and outraged feline screams.

"Now, Sam!" Dean yelled, but his brother needed no invitation. Jumping to his feet, Sam aimed with both hands and buried two shotgun shells in the sliver cat's head. It collapsed without a sound.

Leaving them panting and shaky with adrenalin-release. Dean dropped down to sit on the forest floor, and cast a sidelong glance at Sam, who looked back at him and suddenly grinned.

Dean snorted and grinned back. It felt good.

The net was steel-reinforced and expensive. They untangled the it from the sliver cat body and packed it away, as well as the spent shells. Dean bent down to get the chainsaw and Sam's fallen hard hat, tossing the latter to his brother. His own he took off—it messed with his hair—and it swung from his hand as he and Sam gave the dead cat a final look, then headed out of the forest, all without a word. Sam walked next to him again, matching Dean's stride easily. That felt good, too.

It was also the fatal distraction.

They stepped out from the forest's edge, and Dean only realized it was a trap when the five waiting figures closed a semi-circle around them. Kevin Runyon was at the center of the group, and he had a gun trained on them.

Dean felt Sam slip back into hunting mode, balanced lightly on the balls of his feet, while Dean set his stance, ready to rush any attacker. If his brother's hiss of frustration was at the fact his stance happened to be between him and the new arrivals, too bad.

"Runyon," Dean said calmly. "What's going on?"

"We came to make sure you don't kill any more little girls," Runyon responded coldly.

Dean canted his head back, staring Runyon hard in the eye. "Look, I'm sorry about your sister, but we weren't the ones who killed her. In fact," he nodded back toward the forest, "we just killed one of the things that did. Go take a look—big cat, spiked tail. Good for stabbing people who aren't expecting it."

Runyon sneered at him. "What do you think I am, stupid? Claire wasn't killed by a wildcat. It was a human monster that got her."

Sam spoke up, his voice soft with empathy. "It's called a sliver cat—it waits for people in trees, then spears them with its tail. We hunt things like that, so nobody else has to die like your sister."

Dean worked hard to stay expressionless. Sam could charm the evil out of a spirit sometimes, but this time he wanted his brother as invisible as possible. Runyon was on the edge of losing it, and Dean didn't want anyone else to be in his sites at the time.

"And that's the only reason your friend there happens to be in town each time people are dying?" Runyon laughed. "You really must think we're stupid."

Dean's eyes slid over Runyon's friends, four poker-faced young men who weren't armed but looked like they could do serious damage nonetheless. But they didn't look malicious, merely angry and determined to back up their buddy. Dean looked back at Runyon. "No," he said quietly, "you miss your sister. That's just making you do something stupid."

Uncertainty flashed in Runyon's face. Dean knew how he felt. A week ago he would have been ready to take the guy apart, but the world had been a lot simpler then. Now…he wasn't sure he didn't deserve the censure. He hadn't killed Claire Runyon, but his hands weren't exactly lily-white, either. There was no reason he should be alive, while innocents with most of their lives still ahead of them should die.

As if aware of his thoughts, Sam's hand curled around his upper arm, out of sight of the gang. His breath was warm on Dean's neck, and Dean could picture exactly where he was, what his expression showed, how he was standing. Sam was the younger one, but he protected his brother as fiercely as Dean did. And it wasn't the first time since Nebraska Dean regretted that.

Runyon's face hardened again. "Search them."

The two at the edges of the circle moved in cautiously, and even as Dean kept his eye on Runyon and the gun, he silently traced their movements, willing them to slip up, move between Runyon and him, anything that would give Sam and him the edge. If he could just get Sam out of there…

Their weapons and gear were stripped, their vests examined. Runyon's gun still had a clear shot at his head, so Dean stayed still and ready.

Runyon's face broke into a frightening smile over the gun. "So, you brought your buddy there along for more hunting, huh?"

He felt Sam shift behind him, and Dean raised his voice to draw the attention back to him. He shrugged carelessly as he said, "I just picked him up for an extra pair of hands. You've got a problem, it's with me."

Sam's hand tightened painfully in rebuke.

But Runyon had a calculating look in his eye Dean didn't like. Time to push his hand, and Dean took a step forward, breaking Sam's grip and bringing the gun to bear squarely on him again. "You want a fight, Runyon? Make me suffer for what I did to your sister? Put away the gun and we'll do it right. Come on, teach me a lesson."

The man's expression wavered again, and Dean could hear Sam's unhappy sucked breath behind him.

Runyon had lost all sympathy points when he'd threatened Sam, and Dean grinned at him wolfishly. "Come on. For your sister." For Layla. And Marshall Hall. And Sheriff Devins and Jess and their mom, and all the others who had died so he could have his life. It sang through his body, the anger at not having been able to choose whether he wanted to pay the price or not.

Well, this he could choose.

"Come on," Dean snarled. "Make me pay."

"Dean…" Sam whispered behind him.

Runyon's chin rose. "That's not a bad idea. I think I will." He nodded to one of his friends without taking his eyes off Dean. "Take the vest off his buddy."

It took a second for the words to sink in. They weren't going to let him choose.

Dean lunged.

The gun shoved under his chin brought him up short. Or maybe it was Sam's panicked call.

Dean stood motionless, now less than a foot between him and Runyon, and he stared at the man with all the violent promise a lifetime of hunting instilled him with. "You hurt him, and I will kill you."

"Yeah." Runyon nodded slowly. "That's what I figured."

He passed the gun on to his friend on his left, his gaze only breaking from Dean as he stepped past him, toward Sam. Dean wrenched himself free and gave his new guard a toxic glare. Then he turned back to Sam, ignoring the gun as it dug into his side.

The loss of the vest was partly a blessing. Without it, Sam could move more easily, back to the lethal grace most people didn't expect from the lanky figure and those soulful eyes. Even now, as he looked at Dean with a hundred different silent emotions crowding his face, he was shaking off the stiffness of the earlier hunt and setting his frame. Dean already knew what he was thinking even without the Sam Winchester-condensed version, and kept his equally silent answer simple. _Be careful,_ and, _I'm sorry._

Sam ghosted him a smile, then turned to focus on Runyon, face hardening.

They circled each other warily. Runyon's face held none of the earlier rage, only focus, and Dean wasn't happy about that. Angry people made stupid mistakes. But Sam was good, and his slimmer build gave him the advantage of speed and flexibility. Dean would have put all his money on Sam any day.

Runyon finally attacked, a frontal assault that Sam dodged easily. The fist Runyon threw out at the last moment surprised both brothers, but it only just clipped Sam and he shook it off.

Runyon closed in again, this time low, tackling Sam at the waist. They hit the ground hard, and Runyon got a punch in before Sam rolled, on top now, and bloodied his nose. Dean silently cheered him on.

Runyon threw Sam off and tried to pounce while he was unbalanced, but Sam rolled away from him and came up prepared for the next attack. He absorbed the blow and pulled his assailant's arm in toward him, twisting it behind Runyon's back. The larger man grunted.

A shrug and Runyon freed himself, but he was favoring that arm now. Dean knew Sam saw the weakness as clearly as he did, and nodded unseen approval as Sam pressed the advantage, locking his arm around Runyon's bad one and getting a solid backhanded blow in to his face. The blood was flowing freely now. Runyon had forgotten what he himself had observed: they were hunters.

Or maybe he just knew he could always cheat.

Runyon shook off Sam's assault with difficulty, pushing away from him, and as Sam closed in again, Dean saw the movement from the hovering posse and knew with sudden dreadful clarity what was coming.

"Sam!"

His shout came just as a foot lashed out from one of Runyon's friends to trip Sam. Dean was too late in his warning to stop his brother's stumble. Or the knife that suddenly flashed in Runyon's hand, and buried itself in Sam's gut as he fell forward.

For a second, all movement froze.

Runyon stumbled back in shock, and Sam dropped to his knees, one hand on the knife hilt. His face was pale and stunned as he stared up at his big brother.

And then Dean silently went crazy.

His guard must have been stunned by events, too, because he didn't see Dean coming. The chop snapped bone in his arm, gun falling from his useless fingers as he screamed. Dean ignored the weapon for the moment, pressing the advantage of surprise, and took out the guy on his other side with a vicious blow followed by a roundhouse kick. The guy would probably never have kids, and Dean couldn't possibly care less.

The third guy stupidly charged him next, and Dean used his momentum to break his nose, sending him back gagging with a blow to the throat for good measure. Then he grabbed the gun and whirled on the fourth and last man. And suddenly the clearing was quiet, a human face at the other end of his weapon for once. Dean's jaw tightened, as did his finger on the trigger.

"Dean."

His head whipped around at the whisper. Sam was sitting, slumped, a few feet away, the bloody knife at Runyon's throat. Runyon was pinned motionless against Sam, eyes wide and imploring as they also stared at Dean.

But he saw nothing but his brother.

Sam's head shook weakly, although his hand was rock-solid. "Don't."

Dean stared at him. At the blood that was leaking out under the arm Sam had wrapped around his middle. At the knife his brother had pulled from his own body to subdue Runyon. At the man Dean had been about to shoot. And remembered distantly another conversation about killing humans and playing God.

Dean's finger relaxed on the trigger. "Get out of here and take your friends with you," he said in a voice that didn't sound like him at all.

The guy didn't need to be told twice. He hauled one of his buddies upright, shoved another with his foot, and cast a nervous glance at Runyon.

Dean took a step that direction, wobbled, caught himself and stepped more firmly. He crouched down by Runyon and Sam, eyes still glued to his brother, then tugged the knife from Sam's grip. It came easily, and Sam swallowed, eyes sinking shut. Dean's gaze moved impassively to Runyon. "Leave now before I finish the job," he said matter-of-factly.

Runyon's gaze skittered fearfully across his face, then fell. He scrambled to his feet and took off, his friends straggling after him.

As if Runyon had been the one supporting Sam, the youngest Winchester toppled toward the ground face-first.

Dean caught him with an arm across the chest, rolled his limp brother back against him, and pulled his hand away from his middle. "Let me see, Sammy," he said urgently.

The gash was still leaking blood. He didn't know what else he'd expected, but Dean flinched at the sight anyway, shrugging hurriedly out of his jacket and vest to get to a layer of clothing he could use as a bandage.

"You shouldn't've pulled the knife out," he chided with soft fear.

Sam had pried his eyes open again to watch him. "Told you…not letting you die," he whispered in faint echo of himself.

Dean pulled his shirt off roughly, not caring that it was a concert special. "I'm not the one bleeding all over the place, bro."

Sam's eyes had shut again. "Sorry."

"You've got nothing to be sorry for," Dean said fiercely. He rolled the shirt, threaded it around Sam, and tied the arms together. "Everything's gonna be fine, just…hold on, Sam." Dean gritted his teeth and pulled the knot tight.

Sam hissed weakly at the pressure, arching against Dean's shoulder. Dark hair tickled his nose in morbid imitation of better memories. Dean squeezed his eyes shut, opened them again just as fast because there wasn't time for this. "Sam?"

"Still here." But the whisper was shaking now. The worst of the pain wouldn't have hit yet, but you didn't get a knife in your stomach without serious discomfort. Dean was surprised he was even still conscious, until he saw Sam's hand digging into the dirt.

He grimaced and bent over brother's head. "Okay, we're gonna get you to the hospital. Just keep it together a little longer."

"'S funny…"

He didn't even want to make sense of that. Dean draped his jacket over his brother. "Yeah, you can tell me what's funny later."

"Dean—"

"Shut up, Sammy," he said desperately. Sam took him at his word and finally passed out.

One limp arm slung over his shoulder, Dean slipped his own under Sam's knees, clutching his brother to him as he struggled to his feet. The inches Sam had on him had never been as glaring as Dean fought for balance, grunting under his brother's weight.

It was a struggle he wouldn't remember clearly later, getting Sam to the car, the door open, his brother settled inside. Dean didn't have time to make room in the back and needed to check the bleeding on the way. He folded the long legs under the dash and slid in on the other side, under Sam's head. His brother was already shivering, and Dean did pause long enough to grab a blanket from the back and wrap it around him before screeching the Impala into a one-eighty, toward town. He'd automatically scouted the nearest hospital on their arrival, and headed unerringly toward it. Dean's hand was slick with blood where it pressed against Sam's abdomen, and he swallowed bile more than once.

"Dean…" It was a breath more than anything, an exhaled plea, and Dean glanced down at the white face propped on his thigh.

"Hang in there, Sam. I'm not letting you die, either."

But Sam didn't seem to hear him, whispering his name over and over in that thread-thin voice like an incantation. The tears that blocked Dean's throat this time were a lot harder to swallow.

He screeched up to the emergency entrance of the hospital, unconcerned with the scrape of cement across the Impala's bumper as he got too close. Dean slid out on the passenger side, taking Sam with him.

There was nothing like carrying your bleeding, possibly dying, only brother to put things into perspective. Well, maybe doing the same thing with your child, although he'd been such a part of raising Sam, Dean thought that analogy qualified sometimes. And then there were times when they were just two guys, partners just trying to get the job done, and even some times when Dean stumbled and Sam looked after him. But the brother thing, it was enough. Because as he carried Sam into the hospital, his shirt wet with his brother's blood, Dean would've done anything to save him, anything at all, and he knew it.

00000

They let him hover in the background and watch as they quickly examined Sam. But then he was rolled off to surgery, and Dean could do nothing but sit in the cheerful yellow waiting room and wait.

He did the paperwork—they were Sam and Dean Feiser now—and talked to the cops who came to take his report. No, they hadn't seen anything but a dark shape coming at Sam; yes, they'd been out in the woods. The town had gotten used to stabbings out there, and the officers didn't press. Sam's blood all over him and Dean's monotone answers probably helped, he thought idly, and tuned them out as soon as they left. He didn't mention Runyon. The less opportunity to spread the rumor the Winchesters had been there for both spates of killings, the better. At least, that was what Dean told himself.

Back to waiting.

Dean stood at the window and watched dusk settle on the town, and wondered like he did each time Sam was seriously hurt, why they did what they did.

It had been so simple before. Something had murdered their mother. They had a mission. Dad had said as much. Hunt and kill: it was the only life Dean knew, was good at, even enjoyed. But it wasn't worth giving up what he had left of his family. It wasn't worth Sam.

"Mr. Feiser?"

He'd learned to tune himself to whatever pseudonyms they were using that job. Dean turned immediately from the window.

"I'm Doctor Friedman. Your brother's in Recovery now—you can go sit with him in a minute if you want—but we need to talk."  
He sat, hands wound so tightly together, Dean thought bones might break. The doctor sat across from him, and the lecture began on intestinal damage, peritonitis, and fever. Dean ignored it, listening for the words underneath, what people weren't saying, like he always did. He heard it clearly now: Sam's chances weren't good. It could be too much for him to fight back from.

They had no idea who they were talking about.

"Mr. Feiser?" The doctor was giving him that standard fake worried look.

Dean nodded impatiently. "Yeah. Can I go see him now?"

The recovery room was small and empty besides the one gurney Sam was on. He was under two blankets but his cheeks were flushed, infection already digging in. He looked sunken, ill, and too young to be lying there. He probably would always look too young to Dean.

Dean sat down in the waiting chair, and immediately slipped a hand under the blankets to find his brother's, half-curled and warm.

"I'm here, Sam."

00000

Nighttime is bad for fevers.

Sam's kept creeping up despite the drugs, the cold water pat-downs Dean had taken over, and even the nurses packing Sam in ice midway through the long night. He'd shivered violently through it all, and continued to burn.

Dean spent the hours with his chin resting on folded arms on the edge of Sam's bed, listening to the nightmares Sam had never shared with him.

"Dean." A soft gasp. "It's not her. It's not…Jess, please…" The words faded into soft susurrations like they always did, only another "please" still audible. They always resumed a minute later, when he collected enough strength for them again. "Dean. Don't…"

He knew better than to think Sam would hear his response, but Dean kept trying as always. "It's okay, Sam," His thumb moved over the back of his brother's sharp knuckles. "It'll be over soon." The fever would break, Sam would sleep through the next two days, finally getting that little small-town vacation he was always wanting, and Dean…Dean would apologize.

He'd understood even in Nebraska the determination that had driven Sam to find a way to save his life, but had ignored it, made light of it, and finally pushed Sam away for following through on it. Nothing like a little bedside vigil to illuminate your own hypocrisy. Dean had taken a look into his own soul between the glimpses of his brother's, and not liked what he'd seen. Sam had deserved better.

"Dean…" It was the same broken sound from the car, and Dean had an idea what Hell Sam was inhabiting just then.

He leaned closer, his other hand on Sam's mussed hair. "I'm okay, Sammy. You wouldn't let me die, remember?"

Sam struggled under unseen fetters. "Dean…eyes. Eyes are wrong."

Dean made a face, then traded out the warm cloth on Sam's for a cool one. His ravings had already made for some interesting conversations with the nurses, but Dean understood more than he liked. "Stay with me, little brother," he coaxed again, then rubbed his face. His own head felt like it was going to break apart, the lack of sleep not helping, but he wasn't going to leave Sam to his nightmares. The fever would break soon, then they'd all rest, and life would get back to normal.

But the fever continued to climb.

00000

Ice baths were brutal. Dean had had a few before and witnessed as many, but watching wasn't any easier.

Due to his injury, Sam couldn't be fully immersed in ice water, but they did lay him in a few inches of the stuff. The cold made his pale skin even whiter, especially against the flush of fever, and the violent shivering made Dean bite his lip bloody and look away.

For all the torture of it, though, it barely dented the fire burning through his brother's body. The nurses had started to look grim, and Dean caught snatches of "organ failure" and "brain damage." No one was looking him in the eye anymore, and the realization finally hit him like a punch in the gut.

Sam was dying.

When he thought he could talk again, Dean slipped out into the hallway to call their dad, for all the good it would do.

He returned in time to help the nurses lift Sam out and dry him off, tucking him back into bed under a pile of covers. It was a constant see-saw, trying to bring Sam's temperature down but also keep him warm enough that the chill didn't drain him completely. But there wasn't much left to drain, and, slowly, some part of Dean's brain was starting to believe that.

_It's a dangerous gig. I drew the short straw. _He'd been so matter-of-fact about it when it had been his own life, but Dean had never meant it for his brother. He refused to accept Sam had finally drawn the short straw.

But Sam wasn't giving him a lot of choice.

His hand was as limp in Dean's as it had been since the surgery, and hot to the touch. Dean didn't care. He held it fiercely, and searched for some sign Sam knew he was there. "Fight it, Sam. Don't give up on me," he murmured, voice hoarse from hours of raging at fate and his fading little brother. "Fight for me, Sammy."

He got it, Sue Ann's desperation to save her husband. Dean had thought he'd understood it the week before, puzzled when Sam hadn't because Sam had been just as determined to save him. He'd thought it again when he'd carried Sam into the hospital earlier, when it seemed he'd reached the level of recklessness that had made Sue Ann turn to Dark Arts, and his brother to a faith healer. But there was an abyss of desperation Dean had forgotten existed when you knew without doubt that someone you loved was dying. It was the hush and darkness that fell over everything else and left your priorities in the spotlight, simple and clear again. Sam hadn't just been determined to find a way to save him. He _had_ to.

Dean rested his forehead against their hands, hurting inside and out. "Stay with me, Sammy."

For the moment, Sam obeyed.

00000

Dean came back from the front desk and the new batch of paperwork they'd asked him to fill out, to find a nurse changing the IV. She gave Dean a sympathetic smile. "Has your dad left already?"

He blinked, a little slow from fatigue, let alone a question like that. "Excuse me?"

"Your dad. I know he stopped in before—did he leave already?"

Dean's heart beat a painful thud in his chest, and he let go of Sam to pull out his wallet, taking out the creased picture tucked inside. He had to swallow to get the word out as he held it up. "Him?"

She barely glanced at it. "Yeah. A lot older, but that was him. Isn't he your father?"

Dean shot to his feet. "When?"

"What?"

"When was he here?" he asked urgently.

"I don't—maybe five minutes ago? I didn't see him leave."

Dean dashed from the room, glancing down the corridor both ways before running to the staircase.

It was a small-town hospital, only three stories. He swept each one professionally, then went outside and did the same in the parking lot.

Nothing.

Dean's hands curled into fists and he swore explosively, volume rising until he was yelling. For God's sake, what kind of a family was this! His mother had been cut and burned to death, his brother was dying from an attack by people they were trying to help, and his father… Dean laughed, instantly sobered, swallowing a sob. His dad couldn't even bother to stick around long enough to say hello.

Dean turned, shaking, half-insane and ready to explode. A tree nearby made a convenient target, and he kicked it hard, then again, and found he couldn't stop. John hadn't come when Dean had called, near tears, or when he knew Sam had called because Dean was dying, but for Sam… Had he watched to make sure he wouldn't cross paths with his eldest?

His toes hurt. Dean folded onto the grass, suddenly too tired to stand. He'd never asked for much, nursed few dreams, had no regrets about giving his life up to save others. All he'd wanted was what was left of his family to be together and safe. Apparently, even that was too much to ask for.

Dean leaned back against the tree trunk, spent. Numb. End of the line; his mind felt as drained as his body. He had no one else to count on or beg for. Sam couldn't survive another night like the one before, and Dean didn't have the strength to sit there and watch him die. Where was a Reaper when you needed one? He would offer his life for Sam's even more willingly than he had for Layla's. Sam certainly deserved it more than he did.

Playing God, Sam had called it. What were you supposed to do when God had apparently abandoned the role? Dean draped his arms over his drawn-up knees and rested his head on them.

It took a while to realize his cell phone was pressing against his leg through his pocket. Dean absently reached for it, considering seeing how far he could chuck it across the parking lot, before he paused and actually looked at it. After a few moments, he finally flipped it open, scrolling down until he reached Layla's name.

He'd always prided himself on his independence, his insularity. Sam and their dad were the only ones he'd ever leaned on, and even then only sometimes, briefly. He'd tried with Cassie, and if nothing else, she'd taught him he'd been right to keep people away. But…Dean was drowning. Sink or swim? For himself, he truly didn't care anymore. But for Sam…

Dean pushed the button to dial.

00000

They were pulling Sam out of another ice bath when Dean returned. He leaned on the doorjamb as he watched, exhaustion beyond what he believed possible dragging at his body and muddying his thoughts. But the darkness had retreated just a little bit, and he was ready to face Sam again and share what strength he had left.

"You should get some sleep," one of the nurses admonished him as she left the room, and Dean gave her a tiredly bland smile. Sleep, right. What had he been thinking? Oh, yeah, possible last few hours of his brother's life. Stupid of him to forget. Dean shuffled over to the chair that had become his own, dropped into it, and looked at his brother.

Sam was still shivering from the bath, the back of his head wet from the water, the front from the sweat of a temporarily dropped temperature. Underneath the long bangs, his skin was waxy and translucent. His eyes winced whenever a particularly hard shudder shook him.

Dean unplastered the drying strands from Sam's forehead, brushing them out of his face. "I hear Dad came by to see you while I was gone. Guess both of us dying in a week was finally important enough to show up for." His cracked smile didn't last long. "You're gonna kick yourself for missing him, but I say, he ignores us, we ignore him, right?"

Sam twitched, the most delirium he had strength for now. Occasionally, his mouth parted in inchoate words, but Dean no longer leaned close to try to make them out.

He cleared his throat. "I called Layla. She's doing better—doctors have this new treatment they want to try on her, see if they can shrink the tumor small enough to operate on. I told her I'm—we're—still…thinking about her." He'd never told Sam about the praying, even though his brother would have understood.

Dean rubbed the inside of Sam's palm, where he used to be ticklish as a kid. Now it was just along his ribs, and it had been a while since Dean had felt in a light enough mood to try. "She reminded me of something Roy said, that he picked me because he…sensed I had something important still left to do, a purpose. You know those preachers," Dean flashed a smile, "always vague and portentous. But…maybe he was right. Maybe this family mission is more than just fate or something. I don't know, but…I do know I can't do it on my own, not anymore. So, Sam, I think that means you're part of the package deal. If I've still got unfinished business, you do, too. We go out together or not at all."

Dean laughed, and winced. "I guess that's what you were trying to tell me last week. I still don't like how that went down, but that wasn't your fault, Sammy. I never should've blamed you for it. I know you were doing what you had to. So now," he squeezed Sam's fingers, "I'm gonna believe enough for the both of us, okay?"

Sam's head shifted a little. The heat of his skin was unpleasant even for Dean. He could just imagine how it felt from the inside.

Dean nodded his head to one side. "Yeah, okay, I'll take that as a 'yes.'" He took a breath, dropping his head down on Sam's arm. If he could pray for Layla, he could pray for Sam, too.

He didn't even notice when he slipped from silent entreaty into sleep.

00000

He was dozing when he heard the rattling gasp.

Dean snapped instantly awake, sitting up as he studied Sam. Had he imagined that?

Sam's head rolled on the pillow, and he gave another strangled sound.

Dean bolted for the door and yelled into the corridor, "I need some help here!" Back to Sam's side, where he lay a hand on his brother's head. "Sam?" The other on his chest, Dean reeled at the irregular, pounding heartbeat. "Sammy!"

Medical staff swept in, pushed him aside, and crowded around the bed. Dean stood and watched them with stunned numbness. This wasn't how he'd pictured it.

He was supposed to be there with Sam at the end.

Their dad should have been there.

Sammy shouldn't have to die alone. God, there was nothing worse than being alone…

The activity slowed. A nurse started to put things away. Dean, master of the poker face, wiped at his wet cheeks and gave the doctor a raw look as the man came over to him.

"After a fever that high, the dropping temperature can cause a little systems crash. He's all right now." The doctor, one he barely knew, smiled at him. "Actually, he's doing really well, considering. I'm optimistic."

_Dropping temperature. Well. Optimistic_. Dean gulped air as if he hadn't had any for days and turned disbelieving eyes to the bed. "He's gonna be okay?" he asked dumbly, and could just imagine Sam's expression at hearing him sound like that.

"Well, we can't make promises, and we'll have to see if the fever caused any damage—it was high for a long time. But Samuel has turned a corner."

Dean laughed disbelievingly. "Sam," he corrected in a murmur.

They had to change Sam and the bedding, the sweat of a falling fever quickly soaking everything. By the time Dean settled back next to him, the fresh gown was already damp again at the chest and arms. He touched the cooling skin, marveling, then pressed two fingers against Sam's wrist to feel the labored but steady beat. In the end, Sam had fooled them all.

"Way to go, Sam," Dean whispered. He swallowed hard, because even while he'd found belief, until now, he hadn't had much hope. Layla's God had apparently found him worthy, after all.

Dean leaned forward, resting his face against his brother's side just inches from where the knife had buried itself days before, and wept.

00000

He sat staring at Sam. Dean's eyes burned with fatigue but refused to close.

Sam slept on, peacefully oblivious. He wasn't so pale anymore, although the lips parted in slow breath were still colorless. He barely moved, still too depleted to do anything but rest and heal, but that was fine by Dean. Sam had always trusted him to take care of the details.

Dean's fingers spasmed on the metal bed rail.

He finally swallowed, pried his hand loose, and stood. It took a moment to ride out the tired dizziness, then he walked out of the room. His hands were balled into fists in his pocket by the time he reached Dr. Friedman's office.

The doctor looked up at him questioningly, and Dean cleared his throat.

"I've been having these headaches…"

00000

Sam woke occasionally over the next two days, but never with any real awareness. Dean's exhaustion could no longer be put off, so he'd finally borrowed an empty bed from another room and shoved it against Sam's, figuring his brother would find some way to wake him up if he was needed. At least he could see Dean that way. Feel him, too, because Dean's arm usually ended up through the railing and draped over Sam's.

But his brother slept on, oblivious, and Dean finally did, too.

He dreamed of the Reaper, coming for him, its wrinkled face smiling. Dean stared at it in horror, not moving, knowing someone would die if he did. But the Reaper stopped short, and Dean hesitated, not sure what that meant.

Sam started screaming for him to run, to come to him. Dean faced the Reaper another few seconds, but it made no move toward him. Panic crept into Sam's pleas. Dean glanced over his shoulder, saw nothing, turned to face the waiting Reaper again. Finally, he whirled away and ran, rushing to, or maybe from. He ran until he thought his lungs and head would burst.

No one followed him. And Sam was nowhere in sight.

Dean started back into awareness, blinking hard, then softening into a smile when he saw his brother's eyes on him again. "Hey. You awake this time?" he asked.

"No." Sam blinked heavily, but his eyes reopened.

Dean's smile melted and he pushed himself up. "Sammy?"

"Mmm?"

He stared, still shocked at every sign of improvement, and wondered when his brother would stop being a miracle. "Nothing." Dean shook his head, and reached over to pat Sam's chest. "Just checking. Go back to sleep."

A small frown creased Sam's forehead. "Doubles?" There were a hundred layers of fatigue in every word.

It took a moment for Dean to figure that one out. "Yeah, that's all we need, two of you," he muttered. At Sam's vaguely confused look, Dean simplified, "No doppelgangers today, Sam, just two tired real deals. Everything's okay—get some rest."

"'Kay." The soft tones and unquestioning trust reminded him of a far younger Sam Winchester, before life had added a world-weary shine to his soul. But as he rolled over, trapping Dean's hand between the bed and a steady heartbeat, Sam looked like the kid in many ways he still was.

Dean lay back on his bed, making no move to free himself, and stared up at the ceiling. And said a prayer of thanks, just in case.

00000

"There is no way I am smuggling you in a turkey sandwich."

"Come on, Dean. Four days ago you were bargaining for my life, and today you can't even bring me lunch?"

Dean made a face as he walked back from the window to ease himself up on the edge of his brother's bed. "I knew I shouldn't've told you that. Forget it, Sam—Doc says you aren't ready for solids yet. And you can quit playing the 'dying' card, okay? It's not gonna work anymore."

Sam rolled back on the bed, still easily exhausted by something as simple as conversation. Dean watched him covertly, not quite ready to give up the worrying until he had Sam out of the hospital and back on the road. Yeah, right, who was he kidding: the worrying wouldn't stop even then. But he wasn't telling Sam the only reason he hadn't already gotten him a sandwich was because he knew his brother would fall asleep on the first bite and probably choke himself to death.

Dean canted his head. "Tell you what. Soon as they clear you to eat something solid, I'll get you as many sandwiches as you want."

Sam smiled, his eyes closed. "With pickles."

"And ice cream and whatever else you can think of."

Sam turned onto his side again to face Dean and dredged his eyes open. "You know, I had my doubts about you when we were kids, but you didn't turn out too bad."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Yeah, well, I'm still not so sure about you."

"Yeah, Dad always liked you best." Sam laughed.

Dean's smile vanished.

Sam's faded after a moment, too. "What?"

"Nothing." Dean shook his head, quickly dropping his eyes because Sam could read him too well.

Which only guaranteed him his brother's attention. "Seriously, what?"

His lips tightened, and he half-shrugged. "I, uh…I think Dad might've been here to see you while I was out."

Sam started to push himself up on arms that couldn't hold him, and Dean gruffly but gently pressed his shoulder back down. "You didn't see him? Talk to him?"

"He didn't exactly stick around, Sam. He only came to see you." Dean couldn't keep eye contact with Sam, gaze skidding around the room like some kid's on a first date.

Sam exhaled. Dean hadn't been sure how he'd take the news, and had even debated not telling him, except that wasn't the way they worked anymore. Something had changed in Burkittsville, an ease into partnership instead of Dean leading and Sam following, at least until Dean had been dying. Sam needed to know.

What Dean didn't expect, and probably should have, was the compassion.

"Dean…I called him not too long ago, right before we left for Nebraska. It probably took him this long to get here. I'm sure he was already coming for you."

Yeah, Sam would be, because even when he'd been furious at John, he'd still thought the world of him. Dean was more of a realist, choosing to follow their dad despite the flaws he saw. "Yeah, whatever," he said with a weak smile. "Doesn't really matter, right? Just ships passing in the night again."

A pause. Then, "Yeah, I guess." Sam humoring him, although his brother's hand tightened briefly in Dean's, quiet comfort. Followed by a cavernous yawn, and a wince when it pulled on stitches.

"Go to sleep." Dean nodded at him.

"You should, too," Sam said drowsily. Dean had finally shaved, but the circles under his eyes attested to a very long week.

"I will if you will."

Sam fell asleep smiling.

Dean carefully slid off the bed and relocated to the chair. Its upper edge came up to his neck, and he tilted his head back just enough that he could still keep Sam in sight. He propped his legs up on the lower struts of the bed and wove his hands together. It was a common position, those last few days, and usually the way he fell asleep. He'd sat the same way, eyes on the ceiling, as he'd repeated to his brother the day before some of the things he'd said when Sam had been unconscious. The important parts, about faith and being in this together and, haltingly, how sorry he was he hadn't gotten that before.

There had been a long silence. Then Sam had asked him if he could get that on tape so he could play it back the next time Dean was being hard-headed.

Dean had gaped at him, then groaned at Sam's tentative smile. But he hadn't missed how his brother's eyes shone.

He still wanted to call Layla that evening, tell her Sam was doing better and what his own exam had shown. Tell her maybe, just maybe, it wouldn't hurt if she had one, too, because this Reaper hadn't taken without giving. But right now Dean was too comfortable, and Sam's soft breathing was soothing, and he was still so tired. The headaches had tapered off, mostly fatigue now, because the Reaper didn't take without giving, and life… Dean studied Sam's face. Life was a gift.

He fell asleep smiling, too.

00000

She said it casually in answer to his question, while wrapping the sandwiches he'd ordered.

"Oh, you know, Kevin and his mom just left town. I heard they were moving up north somewhere. Kinda sudden, but that family's been through a lot the last few years. I'm sorry you missed him—I'm sure he forgot you two were planning to go hunting together."

Dean smiled tightly at the deli-counter girl as he paid her. "It's okay. Probably for the best, actually." He hadn't heard about the mom before, and could just imagine what losing both her children would have done to her.

By the time he got back to the hospital, anger and misgiving had faded into a much quieter sorrow.

00000

It was drizzling, the day they left, and Friedman had said his good-byes inside. One of the prettier nurses held an umbrella for them as Dean helped Sam move from the wheelchair to the Impala's front seat, and he gave her a quick grin as he shut the door.

"Oh, I almost forgot." She held out a large folder for him.

_Dean Feiser_, it said along one edge, and Dean took it impassively. "Thanks." He tucked it under his arm and jogged around to the other side of the car, sliding gratefully into the front seat. The envelope he tossed in the back.

"What's that?" Sam asked as Dean pulled away from the curb.

"Nothing, just some records."

Sam, ever curious, glanced back, missing Dean's wince. "They've got your name on them."

"Yeah, so?"

Sam laughed. "So? Are you keeping something from me?" As Dean considered how to answer that, his brother sobered. "You are, aren't you?" He shifted in his seat, turning toward Dean. "Is something wrong? The Reaper—"

"No," Dean said sharply, then thought again. "Okay, yeah, sort of, but it's not what you think. I'd just been having these headaches—"

Sam's sharp breath made him glance over, to see his brother looking about as stricken as he had out in the forest with his blood pouring out. Dean cursed and pulled the car over, turning to face him.

"It's not—look, I had some tests done while you were recovering. Turned out I had a little bleeding or something in my head, but it stopped on its own—on the last scan it was almost gone. I'm fine, Sam—I haven't had a headache in two days."

"Was it a tumor?" Sam asked dully.

That had been what he'd thought, too, but Dean shook his head and answered firmly, "No. I didn't get what Layla had, Sam, I swear to you. I think I just…started to somehow, you know? The Reaper had me there for a minute before you broke Sue Ann's necklace. I guess it did a little damage."

"But it's okay now?" his brother pressed.

Dean grinned at him, playful but sincere. "Don't I look like it?"

"You look like a jackass," came the not-unexpected retort. Dean shrugged, not arguing. Sam breathed out shakily. "Were you going to even tell me?"

Dean hitched an eyebrow. "I'm fine. It didn't seem important."

"Dean—"

"Sam," he grew suddenly serious, "those days when you were doing research, trying to find a way to help me? I just went through that a couple dozen times over, okay? So a few headaches, especially when there's nothing to worry about, don't seem that big a deal. I'm fine. In fact," and Dean's heart lightened even to say it, "maybe it helped Layla, too, made her a little bit better, just enough to beat that thing she has in her head. So if that was the cost, then I'm grateful, okay?"

Sam looked at him a long moment. "Yeah?"

Suddenly they weren't talking about Layla anymore, or Dean's second brush with the Reaper. Dean met his brother's gaze squarely. "Yeah."

Sam slowly smiled. "Okay."

"We're cool then?"

He nodded. "We're good."

"Fine. 'Cause I'm hungry." Dean threw the car into gear and pulled back out onto the road.

"But you keep something like that from me again, and—"

"—all bets are off, I know."

Dean drove through town, trying to see through the rain. They were going back to the motel for a few days, long enough for Sam to get most of his strength back and to find a new job, and then Dean would cheerfully kiss this miserable little town good-bye. He'd seen two of Runyon's cronies at the hospital, checking out in various battered stages, and wasn't anxious to run into any more and test the limits of his newfound empathy. Sam wouldn't be there to stop him next time. As for Runyon, he'd lost a sister and he hadn't killed Sam, whatever his intentions might have been. Dean understood the man more than he was comfortable with and was just as happy to forget about him and move on. Sam hadn't mentioned him, either.

Dean glanced over at his brother, saw he was still awake, although staring at the rain with glazed, half-open eyes. Dean asked, "You wanna pick up some sandwiches on the way?"

Sam's mouth curved faintly upward. "I think the leftovers from the half-dozen you got yesterday should be enough for lunch."

Dean made a defensive motion. "I didn't know what you wanted." Which wasn't true, but there was still precious little he could do with his gratitude at getting Sam back, and he indulged it where he could.

He thought Sam was dozing when a sleep-thickened voice from next to him asked, "What are you smiling about?"

Dean hadn't even realized he had been. He tossed Sam a happy glance. "Nothing. Just enjoying the day."

"Yeah," Sam said quietly. "Me, too."

And that, Dean thought, was about as much of an answer to prayer as he could have ever asked for.

**The End**


End file.
